


The Exigencies of Kokuyo

by kashinoha



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Kokuyo Gang, Tsuna is a Boss, character piece, personal headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:40:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2014, the Namimori Board of Health decides to demolish Kokuyo Land. Although Tsuna sees this as yet another way for the universe to torture him, it turns out to be an opportunity to get closer to his Family. </p><p>All characters © Amano Akira</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_January_

Like his tolerance for stupidity, Sawada Tsunayoshi’s fear of Kokuyo Land had dwindled significantly in the last five years.

Sure, the place smelled like a cross between a garbage dump and a mausoleum and the rats had probably mutated into unspeakable chittering monstrosities by now, but in all actuality the scariest thing in the old amusement park was Rokudo Mukuro himself. And Tsuna could deal. For the most part.

The mid-January air was spicy and sharp; Tsuna’s shoes crunched on the frozen remnants of last week’s thin snow as he let himself into Kokuyo Land. His shadow was long and silky-pale, even though it was only 2:30 in the afternoon. The amusement part looked more hollow than ever in the winter light, but Tsuna was not afraid. The cold numbed his dread as well as his hands and toes.

A dull anger, sore and throbbing under his skin, also curbed any vestigial fears he might have had for the place. Tsuna’s fingers curled around the bag he was holding as he made his way to the heart of the house, determined to give Mukuro a piece of his mind. The crinkle of thin plastic echoed wetly along the damp walls and rot.

Tsuna had made it as far as the missing stairwell banister when he heard a voice in the dark:

"Eh? What's the Vongola brat doing here?"

Kokuyo's nosiest inhabitant had caught a whiff of the homemade bento Tsuna was carrying, and thus decided it was appropriate to make his entrance. He was wearing an old army coat that looked like it had belonged to Mukuro at one point. A tiny dab of drool glistened at the right corner of his mouth.

 _Well, well,_ Tsuna thought.

He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as a particularly vicious breeze swept through the house, his mouth set in a straight line. “Hello, Ken,” he said.  

“Yeah?” Ken asked, tongue lolling out at the thought of warm, white rice and sweet meat. Tsuna noticed Ken eyeing the bento and moved the bag out of his reach.

“This isn’t for you,” he said. “It’s for Chrome.”

Ken hid his disappointment poorly, crinkling his nose. "I don't know where she is right now, but I can take it for her—"

“Chrome was at my house the other day,” Tsuna interrupted. He was in no mood for Ken’s prattling. “Dropping off a text on stealth equipment. My mom took one look at her and asked her to step on our scale.” He looked pointedly at Ken. “Do you know how much she weighed?”

“Cheh. How the hell should I know?” Ken asked.

“Forty kilos,” Tsuna answered, and was grateful to see Ken wince. Even Ken realized that forty kilograms was dangerously low for a tall young woman. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, Tsuna observed that Ken was a little on the thin side as well.

“I weighed forty kilos when I was in _elementary school,”_ Tsuna said. “Chrome is almost twenty. Have you noticed that you can see her ribs right through her uniform, Ken?”

A sudden, muffled creak in the floorboards signaled Tsuna to Chikusa’s presence; otherwise the man was like a tomcat in how silently he moved. Ken looked uncomfortable. He shared a glance with Chikusa, sniffed behind a hand, and mumbled, “We thought she liked the choco-bits.”

At times Tsuna wondered if everyone in the underground mafia had simply left their common sense somewhere on the surface. “You can’t live on choco-bits!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. The bag with the bento in it swished in the air. “Does Mukuro even pay for your meals, or do you just eat out of vending machines all day?”

“You…” Ken started, but trailed off. There was a strange look on his face. He twitched his nose again and, in lieu of answering, proceeded to sneeze eight times in a row, violently. After a sniffle and a muffled curse, he sneezed another eight times.

Tsuna felt his balloon of anger give a silent _whoosh_ as it deflated. He gave Ken, who was still sneezing, a worried look.

 “Um, is…is he okay?” he asked Chikusa. Chikusa shrugged, looking for all the world like someone watching a movie that’s been on television every night of the week.

“Dust,” he replied. He fished a packet of travel Kleenex out from his pocket and wordlessly handed it to Ken once Ken had finished sneezing. Chikusa’s apathy, combined with the handiness of the tissues, suggested this was a common occurrence.

“So let me get this straight,” Tsuna said slowly. “You live in a place with no running water, no heating, no decent _lighting,_ even. Ken, who is allergic to dust, is living in dust bunny heaven, and all of you are severely underweight.” He blinked at Ken and Chikusa. “I assumed that you four had lived on your own long enough to know how to take care of yourselves.”

Ken blew his nose with a honk and glared at Tsuna with watery eyes. “We've never had a problem before,” he said. “And why should you care, Vongola brat?"

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am your Boss,” Tsuna said drily. “And I hardly call this ‘not a problem.’ Do you even have an inhaler, Ken?”

Ken gave a half-stifled sneeze but did not answer. Somewhere in the house a leaking pipe dripped liquid onto the floor with a _plip, plip_ sound. Tsuna sighed.

“Alright, I’ve decided. I’m going to ask Vongola Nono personally for a raise,” he began. His voice was soft, calm, but it was a knife wrapped in cotton. “I want you to use the extra yen for meals and hygienic purchases. Having Mukuro in the _famiglia_ by default makes you my responsibility, and short of hospitalizing the three of you, the least I can do is give you some money. And no—“he pointed at Ken—“Gameboys do not count as hygienic purchases.”

Ken rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Tsuna held out the bento box to Chikusa, who took it with a powder-pale hand and fingers that looked like spiders’ legs.

“Tell Mukuro when he gets back from—“ Tsuna frowned. “Where is he, by the way?”

“The bank,” Chikusa replied.

“I didn’t know Mukuro had a bank account…” Tsuna shook his head. “No, I’d rather not know. Tell him to report to headquarters at seven, where the four of you will have dinner with me,” he told them. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes earnest but flinty. “In case I was not clear, this is not an optional invitation.”

 

_to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

  


_March_

The first thing a nineteen-year old Sawada Tsunayoshi did that Saturday morning was choke on his tea. It was a sign that today was going to be one of _those_ days.

Tsuna pounded on his chest a few times to get the liquid out of the wrong pipe and wiped the excess chai from his chin. When he had recovered he blinked furiously at the newspaper, as if cleaning his eyeballs could somehow change what he was reading. At the other end of the breakfast table, Reborn twirled a curlicue from behind the steam of his espresso.

“Something the matter, Tsuna?” he asked, not even bothering to look up.

“Th-they’re going to demolish Kokuyo Land!” Tsuna exclaimed. “Apparently, the Namimori Health and Sanitation Department deemed the remnants of Kokuyo Land ‘unsafe and unfit for restoration.’” He paused, frowning. “They’re realizing this just now?”

Reborn gave a tiny shrug. “Mukuro has been casting perception filters over that entire block for the last four and a half years, you know.”

“Yes I know that, but…” Tsuna shook his head. His finger traced the article as he read further, “It says…it says here that at the end of the month they are going to start building a shopping center.”

“A shopping center, eh?” Reborn took a sip of his coffee with mild intrigue. “Maybe I can finally buy a sweater for Leon.”

Tsuna swallowed and pushed the remains of his breakfast away, shaking his head at the article. In high school, he had been far too busy oversleeping and subsequently scrambling to get ready for class to sit down and read the paper in the mornings. However, as it was necessary for the Vongola Decimo to follow current affairs, Tsuna had recently taken to reading the news. Now he was glad he had.

 “What are we going to do?” he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Mukuro's there!"

Reborn let the steam from his coffee curl around his chin. He blinked his beady black eyes, unperturbed. "So?"

Tsuna rolled his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be the one telling me, ‘it’s your family, Dame Tsuna, and you need to take care of them,’ or something like that?” he asked, putting on his best Reborn impression. His imitations of Reborn’s axioms had improved greatly over the years, but it still got him hit whenever he did them.

Reborn, deciding that he had not yet had enough caffeine to abandon his pile-of-books highchair, merely said, “I should not need to tell you that any more, Tsuna. You’re an adult.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Tsuna sighed. Folding up the newspaper, he surveyed his chai and breakfast, now cold, with distaste. “Mukuro has reminded me on several occasions that he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but I guess I should check in with him anyway.”

 

\---

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Sawada Tsunayoshi."

Tsuna shivered in his thin suit jacket, suddenly finding it ridiculous that he had dressed up to visit Mukuro. Central heating was not one of Kokuyo Land’s scant working utilities, and the late March air whistled in freely though the building’s copious gaps and cracks. The theater room was especially drafty and not particularly safe, but it was where Tsuna always came to talk to Mukuro. It was where they had first met.

“I know, Mukuro,” he said, resisting the urge to rub some warmth into his arms. How Mukuro was not freezing in his camouflage tee and cotton pants was beyond Tsuna.

“I’m not saying that you can’t,” he went on. “But I am offering you temporary lodgings at the Vongola Headquarters until you can find another housing alternative.”

Mukuro looked amused. “I will politely decline, then,” he said.

 “What about Ken and Chikusa?” Tsuna asked. “And Chrome?”

Mukuro closed his eyes, smiling, and crossed one leg over the other on the moldy couch that occupied the center of the theater room. “Not to worry. We have already found suitable accommodations until renovations are complete.”

"Suitable accomoda—wait a minute, _renovations?"_ Tsuna echoed. "Are you saying you plan on coming back here once the shopping center is built?"

"Possibly. Then we could steal whenever we wanted to."

“Forget I asked,” Tsuna groaned. He sighed, running a hand through his hair so that it stuck up in untamed picket spikes. “Can I at least ask where you’re staying?”

“The abandoned Kirikara condos at the edge of Namimori,” Mukuro replied. The response was smooth, direct, and a little too immediate. Tsuna’s tuning fork of intuition began to hum. His eyes narrowed.

“You mean the complex that the Varia stayed in last year?” he asked.

Mukuro smirked. “There is a reason they are abandoned now.”

“W-well is it…you know,” Tsuna waved a hand around, searching for a somewhat tactful word, “adequate?”

Mukuro’s smirk blossomed into a quiet chuckle. “Of course,” he said, fingering a lock of dark hair that had fallen between his eyes. “This one even has hot water.”

_Thank god for small favors,_ Tsuna thought. “Fine, fine. You know I still don’t approve.”

“And you know I don’t care,” Mukuro replied, leaning back on the sofa and tilting his head. “As I said before, Sawada Tsunayoshi, in this metempsychosis cycle I am twenty years old. My companions and I do not need to be mothered by the mafia.” As if to prove this point, his right eye glowed a pale red in the dust-filled light of the late morning.

“I know you don’t want my support, but we are Family,” Tsuna protested. He knew he was losing the battle, even if he still had a few men standing. “I had good reason to intervene back in January, and I will gladly come to your aid again. At least let us find you more appropriate lodgings!”

 “And what landlord can you think of would house fugitives like ourselves, Sawada Tsunayoshi?”

 “We can still provide you with financial support,” Tsuna tried.

This was met with another chuckle. “I don’t need your money.”

And down went the last few men standing. Tsuna looked at Mukuro and Mukuro returned the look with a lazy Cheshire grin. It was almost impossible to reason with Mukuro, especially when he had a good point.

Half the time Tsuna did not know what Mukuro was thinking, and conversation with him took every ounce of his concentration despite the fact that his verbal opponent was a middle-school dropout (albeit Mukuro was a middle-school dropout with the vocabulary of a literary scholar). Improving awkward relations such as these, as it was with most of Tsuna’s Guardians, was a slow but steadily improving process. It took years.

Tsuna sighed again and buttoned his suit jacket. He paused, his mouth slightly parted to ask Mukuro a question that had been bothering him ever since reading that article in the paper. It had been nagging at Tsuna, starting back when Reborn had mentioned Mukuro’s perception filters. Kokuyo Land had evaded the public eye for years. Mukuro only let those in who he wanted to let in, and his illusions took care of the rest. Tsuna wondered what other people saw when they passed by the corner of Mitsuyo and Bentai street.

Tsuna also wondered, not for the first time, if he should have taken more drastic actions back in January. Then again, January was a point that should have never been reached in the first place. The Vongola should have intervened a long time ago. Kokuyo smelled of old dust, rubber, and the faint coppery odor of long dried blood. The dankness and muffled stench of weeds, mold, and rotting upholstery made one think of lost circuses and haunted Victorian homes. There was little lighting, no plumbing, and there were rats. The rats, among nature's other equally unpleasant denizens, scratched away at the floorboards and made the hairs at the back of Tsuna's neck stand up at the phantom skitters. In short, after half a decade, Kokuyo Land had become unlivable. 

Which was why Tsuna wondered why Kokuyo was drawing its long-deserved attention now, of all times. Had someone from Namimori seen past the illusions and decided to step in?

Or was Mukuro's power over the place weakening?

Tsuna wanted— _needed_ —to ask Mukuro this, and in the silence of the drafty theater room, he almost did. At the last minute, he decided it would not help his persuasive argument. Granted, it was an argument that he had already lost, but he did not think he was prepared for Mukuro’s answer if he opened that door. Sitting there with his right eye pinwheeling lazily in the dimness and that whale’s grin on his face, Mukuro did not _look_ weak.

_But something is definitely wrong here._

“Well?” Mukuro asked. His finger traced a rip in the sofa with ease, and Tsuna finally accepted defeat.

"Alright, Mukuro. Since you guys are convinced you can manage on your own, I won't bother you about it anymore," Tsuna concluded. With a final sigh, he drew his jacket tighter across his torso. "But don't forget that we are Family, Mukuro. My door will always be open for you."

With that he left, his tuning fork of intuition quivering harder than a cold Chihuahua.

 

_to be continued..._

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_April  
_

Tsuna could hear the plinking of a piano from the floor below, the sound murmured through a layer of plaster and ceiling. That would be Gokudera, with Liszt’s Consolation no. 3. As he listened, Tsuna realized that no other piece was more fitting to a rainy afternoon. The windows of the Vongola Headquarters displayed the peppercloud gray skies and soggy trees outside, and for a while, there was silence in the room.

_Forget_ April showers bring May flowers _,_ Tsuna thought. _If this downpour keeps up, half of Japan will be under water by this time next month._

Unsurprisingly, no one seemed to notice Chrome’s two-day absence from headquarters. Most regarded Chrome as simply another pink circle in a sea of flesh; a faded pastel no-name with an existence so slight that when pressed into the earth, it made no print. Her blending skills were her greatest asset, and she usually came and went without a whisper.

That is, until this afternoon.

Tsuna eyed Chrome Dokuro from across the living room table as she slowly sipped a mug of hot cocoa. She was still trembling. Tsuna had laced the cocoa with brandy; a trick he had picked up from Reborn sometime in the last three years, and one he had hoped to seldom use. He had gotten to know Chrome well enough to see her palette of emotions: upset, frightened, determined, mildly angry. Seeing her soaking wet, bathed in clotted mud, and hysterical was something new and alarming for Tsuna.

To his further surprise, Chrome insisted that her reason for such distress was a private matter and one that she wished to speak only with Tsuna about. Tsuna accepted, somewhat reluctantly, knowing that he was not really the best with these kinds of things. He had initially wanted to call Haru or Kyoko, especially if he was to be dealing with an emotional crisis (or worse, a _female_ crisis, Tsuna thought with a shudder). It was Tsuna’s own opinion that, as far as comforting people went, anyone—Yamamoto, or even Bianchi—would have been better than him.

"Chrome," he said, "did someone attack you?"

Chrome stared miserably into her cup, her free hand fumbling with the tassels on the shawl draped over her shoulders. Her fingers left faint mud stains on it. She shook her head. “No, Boss,” she replied, “but I need you to hurry!”

Tsuna’s eyes fell again to the mud caking Chrome’s uniform and bare legs in splatters. It reminded him of coffee grinds. He glanced to the window, where the steady rain left thousands of little rivers along the panes of the glass. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, his voice soft.

“I—I don’t really know,” Chrome began. Her brow scrunched up and her hands tensed around the ceramic mug she was holding. “I don’t understand it!”

“It’s okay,” Tsuna said. He closed his eyes as the Consolation downstairs slid into a minor key. “Can you tell me what you do know?”

Chrome swallowed and gave a quick nod. “Mukuro-sama is in trouble. They all are.”

“Eh? W-why?” A shiver trickled down Tsuna’s spine, as if some of the rain from outside had gotten in without him knowing it. Call it that Vongola intuition, but he had begun to get a very bad feeling indeed.

“At first I didn’t notice,” Chrome began. “I’ve been here, working on that Bertrolli case with you. Sometimes I like to check in with Mukuro-sama, but Mukuro-sama was…keeping me out. That’s not normal.” She bit her lip. “Usually, I can break in if he’s weakened or injured, or if I try really hard, but I—I don’t like to do that.”

Tsuna laid his hand on top of hers, feeling her chilled skin. Chrome gave him a grateful look. “Did you see something?” Tsuna asked her.

Chrome nodded. A few tears spilled from her one good eye and down her cheek. She turned her head to wipe them away with the heel of her hand. “That’s why I left, Boss. I needed to find them, to make sure they were okay,” she said.

Tsuna felt a sinking feeling in his chest. It was the kind of feeling you got when you’ve realized that you swam out too far in the ocean and lost sight of the shore. “Find them?” he said slowly. “They are staying at the Kirihara condos. Right?”

“Is that what he told you?” Chrome asked, smiling a tight, lopsided smile. Tsuna had never seen anything so horrible.

“Chrome.” Tsuna’s face could have been carved in stone. “Where is Mukuro?”

Chrome gripped her mug even tighter, knuckles white and protesting. “I can’t really…you…you need to see it, Boss. There’s nothing I can do!”

Tsuna rose and went to fetch his umbrella and his keys. He hastily scoured his coat closet for some old boots for Chrome, emerging with a pair of faded Timberlands and a dry poncho. “Do I, um. Should I call the medics?” he asked Chrome, holding out the clothes to her and reaching for his cell phone. Something told him they would be needed.

 Chrome nodded, taking the boots and poncho. Her eye bore into his, a deep violet; turbulent, yet with a strength that gave Tsuna a surge of warm admiration.

 “Help him, Boss,” she said. “Please.”

 Tsuna put a hand on her shoulder, smiled, and motioned for her to follow him into the rain. Downstairs, the Consolation trickled to a quiet end.

 

\---

 

There was some unspoken code that mafia dons never actually drove themselves, and left the wheel to their right hands. Tsuna regarded that code as a load of bull and drove Chrome himself. With roads blocked off and slippery mudslides around every corner, it was a harrowing trip. The Vongola’s silver Honda was good, but it was no Range Rover. By the time Tsuna arrived at the Namimori bridge, his windshield wipers were groaning in protest and Chrome’s trembling had gotten worse. She fretfully pulled at his sleeve as he stepped out the car. Tsuna could hear the sirens of the medics, dispatched on Hibari’s order, close behind him.

He felt the wet squelch of earth beneath his boots as he allowed himself to be led by Chrome off the road and into the waterlogged brush. Finally, she stopped and pointed.

Tsuna stared.

He could hear Hibari himself getting out of the first ambulance car behind him, distinctive by his calm, slow strides, and even over the rain he heard the barely audible exhale of his cloud Guardian as he saw what was ahead.

For a minute Tsuna simply gaped, eyes wide and the rain pattering loudly onto the back of his umbrella. Then he took a deep breath and shook his head once, twice.

"Oh, Mukuro," he said.

 

_to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

\---

 

"He lied to me," Tsuna fumed to Hibari Kyouya as he paced the reception room of Namimori General Hospital. The dirt on his boots left watery marks on the sterile hospital tiles (which had earned him several disproving glares from the nurses), but he had been too frazzled to bring a change of clothes.

No; Tsuna was more than frazzled. He was mad. He was, by nature, meek and caring, and he could forgive stupidity to a certain degree. Tsuna thought he had lived with Gokudera and Yamamoto long enough to get used to people he cared about endangering their own lives, but, evidently, he had not. And yes, he did care about Mukuro…in that cautious, if somewhat pitying way that Reborn had warned him about countless times.

In his own disillusioned way Hibari cared too, even if all he claimed was, "I don't really care, but then I wouldn't be able to bite him to death anymore." Hibari had paid the hospital out of his own pocket to give Mukuro, Ken, and Chikusa all private facilities.

Tsuna raked a hand through his hair. “How could I have been such an idiot? I mean, what kind of abandoned condo has hot water? I should have checked…I should have asked Mukuro for the paperwork! He lied to me,” Tsuna said again. “Why would he do that?”

Hibari gave a shrug. He was seated at a small table in the reception room with a copy of _The Brothers Karamazov_ and a cup of Jasmine tea. He had his arms folded across his chest, looking inappropriately Zen giving the situation.

“They probably did not want to live with the likes of you,” he replied. It was not a malicious statement, but an indifferent observation that was probably more accurate than Tsuna wanted to admit at the moment.

"I never said they had to! I just offered to help them find a place, for linguini’s sake."

"Hn." Hibari closed his eyes. "And look how they responded. Useless herbivores can go die."

To this day, Tsuna is not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or not.

 

 

\---

 

Although he may have had the best natural intuition in Japan, Tsuna was oblivious to the fact that Mukuro had been lying through his teeth since March. In all actuality, Kokuyo Land’s former inhabitants _had_ no place to go, but Mukuro, Ken, and Chikusa had all been unanimous on the front that they did not require outside aid. Chrome separately took Tsuna up on his offer, which provided him with only a modicum of much-needed relief.

As silly as it sounded, Tsuna sometimes forgot that Mukuro lied for a living. His Mist Guardian enjoyed pontificating and demonstrating his extensive vocabulary _ad nauseam_ so often that by the time Tsuna had absorbed it all, it was impossible to remember what was actually true, and what was simply a farce. Which was exactly what Mukuro had wanted.

Within the Italian mafia, intelligence and wit was often diluted by stubborn pride. Mukuro had a fulgent intellect, complete with a shiny silver tongue and the manipulation skills of a chess master.  But even those gifted with the most superb cranial acumen were not immune to making downright stupid decisions.

Tsuna had followed the Kokuyo construction project, taking Mukuro’s silence as confirmation that they had not needed him after all. In hindsight, he really should have checked in with them. That was his job as a boss, was it not? But Tsuna had trusted his Guardian and had not looked into it.

It was times like these when Tsuna wondered privately if he was indeed too trusting of others. Then again, a deeper, more mature part of himself reminded him that this was also his greatest strength.

So, in one of Mukuro’s less intelligent moves, he had decided to temporarily live in the underpass of Namimori’s main bridge. The bridge itself was immense. Its weathered brick and metal towered over the highways, casting impressive shadows at sunset. The bridge was part of Interstate 46 that led to all the main roads in the town, crossing over the river and gracing Namimori with easier transportation circa 1924. It was spacious, but hardly suitable for long-term living.

 If it had not been for Chrome, Mukuro would have succeeded in his little deception. He would also be dead, buried under leaves alongside the equally dead bodies of Joshima Ken and Kakimoto Chikusa. It had been one of Tsuna’s more shocking moments to discover Kokuyo’s former inhabitants camping out under that bridge. And, like a good boss, he had threatened the three into the ambulance lest they be handed over to Vindice. They had been too weak at the time to protest.

The official diagnosis, which Tsuna wormed out of the doctors later, was ghastly. He remembered studying the Holocaust in his sophomore year of high school, and one of his textbooks had shown pictures of the camps at Auschwitz and Dachau. Seeing Mukuro, Ken, and Chikusa under that bridge brought those pictures to mind. To a lesser extent, certainly, but he had seen the same sunken looks that had stared at him from those old photographs. The Kokuyo trio had been living on choco-bits and whatever else they could scrounge from local vending machines. All of them had some form of infections, viral and bacterial. Mukuro outweighed them all with a trouncing fifty-two kilos, Ken had a respiratory infection that bordered on full-blown pneumonia, and all had developed severe vitamin deficiencies. Give or take another week, they would have died.

Tsuna could see why Chrome had been a little upset.

 

 

\---

 

After sleeping for five days straight, Rokudo Mukuro woke up in a bad mood.

He smiled briefly at Chrome, who he found dozing in the corner, but the sight of an IV drip in his arm wiped what little spirits he had off his face. That, and a certain Sawada Tsunayoshi was staring at him.

"Are you all right, Mukuro?" Tsunayoshi asked. His brown eyes ( _Doe’s eyes,_ Mukuro thought) were big an earnest; the eyes of a schoolboy in the body of a man. There was a vase of melancholy looking lilacs on the window sill by Mukuro’s bed; most likely a gift from Tsuna.

"I hate hospitals, Sawada Tsunayoshi," Mukuro said. His voice was crumbly like thin crackers. From his spot on the bed and covered in white cloth, he could almost pass for normal. Albeit the mildly disturbing heterochromia. His pupils were pinprick-small in the crisp hospital lights and his dark hair was tucked behind his ears. Tsuna thought then that his face looked very pale, very open.

“I know, Mukuro,” he said. “You had a mild panic attack when we brought you in.”

Mukuro snorted and tried to smile, but all that came out was a mild grimace. “I don’t have _panic attacks,_ Sawada Tsunayoshi,” he said.

Tsuna raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, you don’t remember.”

Mukuro rested his head against his pillow, but kept both eyes fixed on Tsuna.

“It all makes sense, but I hadn’t put the pieces together before now,” Tsuna went on. “Your specialty is long-range fighting. You use Chrome’s body more than is actually necessary. You avoid crowding, and you care for your health as much as my Storm Guardian doesn’t.” He paused, frowning.

“Finally, I’m probably the only one who’s noticed that in the five years we’ve known each other, I have never once seen you sick, Mukuro.”

“You are adorable when you try to play detective,” Mukuro said. He brought a hand up (not the one with the IV in it) and tapped his chin. “I’ll admit I have a certain…distaste for places like these. If you have them discharge me immediately, I’ll decide not to show you the six paths of Hades for bringing me here.”

"Yes, well, about that," Tsuna pursed his lips, eyes narrowed, "this hospital is keeping you three alive."

Mukuro caught the emphasis Tsuna had placed on that sentence. "Ken, Chikusa?"

"Down the hall. I can’t say they’re good, but they are fine for the most part," Tsuna answered.

Mukuro cleared his throat of its residual rustiness and tried to get a look at the name tag at the foot of his bed, unsuccessfully. "Who am I?" he asked. An unintentionally existential question, and one that under any other circumstances would have been quite eldritch.

"Routarou Miyano, Japanese citizen," Tsuna said. His eyes were hard. Not the eyes of a doe anymore, but of a stag. "You can thank the Vongola for that, Mukuro, and for also covering up the fact that you have no existing medical records _nor_ any of the proper vaccinations needed in the last two decades."

Mukuro tilted his head to the side. "I didn't know you cared, Sawada Tsunayoshi."

Tsuna gave Mukuro a pained look. "What was I supposed to do when I found one of my Guardians living under a _bridge?"_ he asked.

Mukuro’s eyes fell to the IV with distaste, and at the same time a shadow of his old smirk threatened to break out on his face. "Oya. You're mad, Sawada Tsunayoshi," he noted, still staring at the IV.

"Well, I was," Tsuna replied as he smoothed out the ends of his shirt, "but I’m trying not to take it personally. What you three did was completely idiotic, and not my fault. _I_ offered to help you, and instead you—you get yourselves almost killed!"

"Ku, fu, fu." It was a laugh with little humor, and one like a spoiled cake: all frosting and sweetness, but once your teeth set in you found yourself chewing on maggots and squirming things and something truly nasty. Mukuro's eyes were still on the drip. "Really."

He shook his head and absently brought a hand up to rub at the faint scar tissue below his right eye. "I hardly expect someone like you to understand."

"You might be surprised," Tsuna said quietly. "I know about the Estraneo’s experiments.”

“It’s common knowledge in the underground,” Mukuro said.

“Some of it, yes,” Tsuna agreed. “But what kind of boss would I be if I didn’t check up on my Guardians?”

 _A smart one,_ Mukuro almost replied, but thought better of it at the last minute (a feat almost unheard of for him, but Tsunayoshi’s anger was a rare card that he did not often witness in play).  

Tsuna leaned in. “Let us say I have the perfect combination of too much time and very good resources,” he said, his voice low. Mukuro had finally torn his eyes away from the IV and was looking at Tsuna with an odd medley of contemplation, bitterness, and amusement. “I can see why you guys would think that you don’t need anyone else. Not now; not ever again.

"It's something a lot of our Family has trouble admitting," Tsuna went on, "and sometimes I think the only reason I know any better is because I had something close to a normal childhood, but it's okay to have help sometimes, and to trust in people."

Another chuckle escaped Mukuro's lips. "You're odd, Sawada Tsunayoshi," he said. For a moment there was only the sterile smells of the hospital to tickle their noses and the beeping machinery to ring in their ears. Mukuro let his eyes stray to Chrome, who was curled up in her chair in a deep sleep.

"She knows you guys have bad memories of doctors,” Tsuna informed him. “She stays here every night.” He turned back to Mukuro with a crease in his brow. “You know she saved you all. I mean no disrespect to her, but when Chrome is the most sensible one of you lot I begin to worry, Mukuro.”

Mukuro let his gaze rest on her for a moment longer with something like, if it had been anyone else, affection. "Why do you care so much for my well-being?" he finally asked. The question held genuine confusion. Tsuna could understand that.

"Because that's what Family does," he replied. “We are bonded not by blood but by our spirit. Family looks out for each other. If I was badly hurt, wouldn’t you worry about me?"

Mukuro looked thoughtful. "Probably not," he replied. Tsuna said nothing, for he saw a different truth in Mukuro's eyes. Somewhere.

"You know, Kyouya came by the other day," Mukuro recalled, changing the subject. "He thought I was asleep." He smirked. "I wasn't."

"He was worried too, although he may not look it," Tsuna pointed out. "You had a fever of forty for two days, your white blood cell count is dangerously low, and you're being fed through a tube."

He leaned in again and crossed his legs. “Actually, something’s been bothering me for a while now, Mukuro,” he said.

Mukuro's smirk widened in an effort to not look uncomfortable. With most people, it would have worked.  “Well I wouldn’t want you bothered, now would I, Sawada Tsunayoshi?”

Tsuna blew out his breath in a little snort. Sarcasm only looked good on Mukuro when it was at the expense of others. “I’m sorry I did not ask sooner, but there’s one thing I want to confirm with you,” he began.

"And what might that be?"

"Your illusions over Kokuyo Land," Tsuna said. "I was wondering why they disappeared after all these years."

Mukuro's bony shoulders jostled once in a shrug, and he picked at a nonexistent spot of lint on his hospital robe. "I simply got tired of wasting my power on unnecessary things," he said.

Tsuna shook his head. He rubbed his face, looking as tired as Mukuro felt. "No, I don't think that's it. In case you haven't noticed, Mukuro, I've _seen_ Kokuyo Land recently. It was hardly suitable for living." _Hardly suitable_ could have easily replaced the word "understatement" in the dictionary. Tsuna thought it best not to imagine the proportions to which the amount of mold there had been allowed to grow.

Mukuro had kept the park hidden for so long, but nothing lasts forever.

"Could it be...that you wanted change?"

Mukuro surveyed Tsuna for a moment, a slight crease forming a slash across his pale brow. "I'm tired, Sawada Tsunayoshi," he replied finally, closing his eyes. "I think I will sleep now."

Tsuna nodded and rose, a smile gracing his features. "I think I understand you a little better, Mukuro."

"Think what you wish," Mukuro replied faintly from the bed.

"And be sure to thank Hibari-san for the private room once you get better. I'm sure the regular nurses would have been very curious as to why you spend over 90% of your nights in REM sleep," Tsuna added, remembering the rather dry report Hibari's medics had given him the other day. "Or why Chikusa shows symptoms of a prefrontal lobotomy and Ken has traces of animal DNA in his chromosomes."

He departed then, mind mixing together thoughts and preparations for Kokuyo’s new living accommodations. He would make sure the four of them had somewhere warm and safe, and this time around Tsuna doubted they would be quite as eager to expostulate.

Once Tsuna had left, Mukuro turned his head to face Chrome, letting his eyes slide open. "Heh. Our boss really is an interesting character," he told her quietly. The only response he got was a slight snore, and it was only then that he allowed himself to smile fondly.

"Thank you, dear Chrome."

 

 

 

_to be continued._


	5. Chapter 5

 

_September_

 

Rokudo Mukuro's left eyelid jittered.

He was not one for eye twitches, usually, but any disorder not created by his hand tended to upset the balance of his mood. Especially when he came home to a room that resembled something out of a Wonka factory gone wrong.

"So?" He smiled at the kitchen’s pitiful inhabitants. "What happened here?"

Chrome, suddenly fascinated with the ends of her sleeves, began carefully rolling them up past her wrists. Chikusa glanced up from the couch in the next room. “Ken tried to make microwave dinner,” he said.

“It wasn’t my fault, Mukuro-san!” Ken protested, scrubbing something that looked suspiciously like burnt cheese off of the counter with vicious determination. “Those directions made no sense at all!”

"You just didn't read them correctly, Ken."

"Shut _up,_ Kakipi."

Mukuro was still smiling his plaster smile. "Well, what did it say on the label?" he asked. Ken frowned, reached into the trash can, and recovered the initial packaging.

"Um..." He looked over the instructions. "I _did that_...and that...uh." His lip curled up to expose an incisor. "Well how the hell was I supposed to know you take the plastic off?"

Mukuro pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. They would have to get a new microwave.

Again.

 

\---

 

The amusement park had been an excellent cover, but after five years even Mukuro saw that things needed to change. Gritty chunks of the ceilings, floors, and walls could cave in at any given time. The must and dust had become near unbearable for Ken's allergies. Chrome had developed back pain from sleeping on the floor. The four—even Mukuro— had all endured their share of bedbugs, and on one occasion Ken had even had lice. The list went on. In short, Kokuyo Land had become unlivable.

Thus it became visible to the public eye, causing much consternation for the Namimori Board of Health and Sanitation. It was an eyesore, not to mention a public affairs nightmare. Tsuna could feel their pain. 

He had often evinced his disapproval of Kokuyo’s domestic conditions, but he always found himself with bigger things to worry about. He trusted his Guardians, and he did not make it a priority to butt into their personal affairs—especially when they eschewed his hospitality so rudely.

And then April happened. Mukuro made the granddaddy of all bad decisions. Kokuyo’s little _folie a trois_ had, in addition to putting them at the Reaper’s front porch, sent Tsuna into hair-tearing swivets. After pleading with Vongola Nono to help pay for Kokuyo’s extensive hospital bill, Tsuna could simply take no more. It boiled down to finding a place for his favorite fugitives, or letting them resort to their riparian alternative.

He found a four-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Namimori and, by some miracle, managed to convince the landlord into housing four young adults with “special needs.” He was even able to get them a lowered rent (being on the wrong side of the Italian mafia made finding part-time jobs somewhat difficult). The apartment had all of the basic necessities for comfortable living. It even came with a window facing east so the light of the rising sun could warm up the living room on crisp autumn mornings.

Which brings us to where we are now, with Mukuro facing newfound problems that he, infuriatingly, had next to no experience in dealing with. The modern ways of living were beyond he and his little gang; it was easy to forget that none of them had been raised properly. Mukuro, Ken, and Chikusa were orphans and Chrome—Nagi, back then—had been abused and neglected by her parents, who had wanted nothing to do with her.

Running under yellow tape had been life for all of them, and going about something as simple as living in an adequate home was mind-reeling. The simple trifles of everyday life became monstrous issues.

Chrome seemed to know the most about living in an apartment. Looking around her, she mused that if Boss could see Mukuro now, he would surely laugh. Or cry. That haughty, wily air that Mukuro exhibited made the situation all the more amusing since he made to _look_ like he knew what he was doing. Chrome had found shampoo in the refrigerator during their first week there.

It was not all bad. Chikusa was ecstatic at the notion of indoor plumbing. On their first night, he had stood under the shower for the better part of two hours before Ken banged on the door, shouting that he had to pee. Ken himself, who had never owned a bed of his own before, took delight in sleeping for eighteen hours on the weekends. The concept of having their own rooms was an apostasy of everything they had assumed about living. Chrome quickly abandoned the method of undressing that she had developed after she’d discovered that Kokuyo Land had no actual doors. One day she had even spent the afternoon in her underwear, just because she could.

Getting used to the sink took a while. Ken had outright laughed when Mukuro turned on the tap full blast, unaware of the potency of their plumbing system. With an unwavering abundance of electricity, Chrome found that she could read well into the night now that her lights no longer flickered or burnt out. Sometimes, though, she would forget to turn them off for days. There were other funny things, such as Chikusa storing his clothes in the kitchen cupboards or Mukuro using the ironing board to cook.

On the downside, the number of times the little toilet in their apartment had clogged during their stay was both unfortunate and a little sad. All four of them had almost no concept of toilet paper proportions, and Ken (and Chikusa, surprisingly) also used the toilet as a disposal for food and garbage.

Mukuro was the brave soul who attempted to use the plunger…which did not end well for anyone.

 

_to be continued..._

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

_November_

 

After a few months, Sawada Tsunayoshi started getting calls from their landlord.

Reborn came in one day shortly after Halloween to find Tsuna sitting at his desk, staring at the phone and rubbing his temples. Around this time of year Tsuna was usually within ambsace of having a mental breakdown, so Reborn was not unduly concerned. But, he had come to learn that if Tsuna was stressed out, there was almost always a good reason for it. Reborn unfurled his tiny cashmere scarf from around his neck, folded it once, and hung it on the coat rack at the front of the office room.

"Is there a problem, Tsuna?" He asked.

“Aside from the mafia in general?” Tsuna tore his eyes away from the phone in its cradle. “I just got another call from Mukuro’s landlady.”

“Ah.” Beneath the brim of his fedora, Reborn’s expression was unreadable. “What was it this time?”

Tsuna grimaced. “Yesterday they set the couch on fire.”

“I see.”

“According to their landlady, there have been complaints about backed-up plumbing,” Tsuna explained. He slid open the top drawer of his desk and produced a crinkled package of antacids. He popped two into his mouth, continuing, “And ruckus. People thought they were keeping an animal up there. She said there also was reported shouting, but no one could understand anything because it was all in Italian.”

Reborn looked utterly unsurprised. “And the couch?”

“They claimed they were trying to make dinner. Don’t ask me how the furniture got involved.”

Tsuna put the antacids back in his drawer and met Reborn’s eye, stress lines evident in the skin of his brow. “The landlady went to check up on them today,” he said. “She told me that when she walked in she saw claw marks in the walls, and the table had actually looked bitten into.”

“Roughhousing,” Reborn assumed. He knew it would drive Tsuna’s blood pressure up if he smiled fondly, so he resisted with conscious effort. “Our family tends to have extremely violent arguments. Like Hibari and Dino.” He smirked. “Or the Varia.”

“I know that, Reborn,” Tsuna said. “I thought Hibari-san and Dino-san were bad, but at least they _clean up_ when they bleed.” He pulled a face.

“Apparently,” he went on, “the landlady asked the ‘thin, one-eyed girl with the cropped hair’ if there was an animal loose in the vicinity.”

Reborn, amused, huffed out a little breath. "Hn. I would have liked to see Chrome explain that."

Tsuna removed his hand from his temple and sat back in his chair. "As the story goes, Chrome answered no, they had no pets, only a person with big teeth. Which would have been amusing if not given the circumstances."

"And Mukuro didn't feel the need to make the apartment look more presentable?"

"Apparently he doesn't like to waste his power on inconsequential things," Tsuna replied, if somewhat bitterly. "The landlord was rather..." he grasped for the right word, "distraught. Especially by the blood. I told her not to call the police."

Reborn hopped down from the desk. "What will you do now, Tsuna?" he asked. "Your family is your responsibility."

“Oh, _now_ you say it.”

Reborn had the gall to chuckle. “Silly Tsuna. I’ve been telling you that for five years.”

“And yet it still surprises me.” Tsuna ran his fingers through his hair, inhaling deeply. "I suppose I should go over there," he said after a minute. He groaned and rose to get his coat.

"Sometimes I wonder why you picked such lunatics for my family, Reborn."

 

 

\---

 

In the end, Mukuro and his gang managed to evade the authorities yet again, but this time it was because of Sawada Tsunayoshi’s aid. He—Tsuna—paid the disturbed landlady a personal visit, somehow managing to convince her that everything was a-okay. Over the years Tsuna had figured out exactly how to use his winsome smile, soft brown eyes, and budding handsomeness to his advantage. He opted for blandishment in lieu of duress, and in five years he had perfected this charismatic cocktail to almost an art form in and of itself. Even Reborn was impressed.

Not only would Tsuna see to “the extirpation of further deleterious activities” on the residents’ part, but he and “his establishment” would pay for any and all damages on his associates’ part. Tsuna found himself channeling an indescribably frightening mix of Mukuro’s vocabulary and Yamamoto’s charm. The landlady, understandably, found it difficult to protest.

Had he been present, Mukuro—inveigler extraordinaire—would have been proud.

Ken and Chikusa know how to use the toilet properly now. Chrome does not use up the electric bill, nor does she find shampoo or soap in the refrigerator. Mukuro no longer uses the ironing board as a cutting board, and they have all more or less grasped a concept of the microwave. They are comfortable, and despite their setbacks they thank themselves that they have such a wonderful place to live in.

Their landlady underwent mild but brief counseling over a four-week period.

The fifth floor of that apartment complex has become something of a legend in the area nowadays. Strange sounds come from the end of the hall. The neighboring rooms are suspiciously cheap to rent. Their apartment is the only one in the building to have _two_ emergency fire extinguishers. There is a heavy-duty plunger in the bathroom, and little crumbs of choco-bits gather dust in the corners of every room. Plaster has covered the deep, five-streaked gouges in the wall well, but there will always be a lingering, indelible odor of burnt food and blood.

Sawada Tsunayoshi's finances took a dive that first fall that the Kokuyo Gang moved in, but it was not as bad as he’d expected. It could have always been worse, he reminded himself.

At least he wasn't paying housing accommodations for the _Varia._

 

_to be continued...  
_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to my readers if you have made it this far! I really had a lot of fun writing this piece, which is an expansion on an earlier work. I wanted to explore how Tsuna relates to the different people in his family, so you might have noticed that almost every scene is a one-on-one conversation with Tsuna and another character. Without further delay, here is the final part of this work. 
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed reading.

 

_Late November_

 

The Hall Camino was one of the smaller halls of the Vongola’s Japanese headquarters, and it was rarely used on the account of Hibari Kyouya making it his unofficial nap room. It had somewhat of a stuffy, last-century European feel to it, but it was a perfect place to find peace and quiet. True to its name, there were four unused fireplaces decorating each wall face. None of them actually worked properly, yet the room was strangely warm year-round.

When Hibari was gone, Tsuna sometimes used the Hall Camino as his own personal getaway; a breath of quiet could be refreshing as a budding flower in the first winks of springlight.

Now, though, it was far from spring. The glow of November dusk threw sharp-edged shadows across the room and little puffs of cool air blew in between the cracks of the sash windows. The days were getting shorter, and in Tsuna’s opinion, more stressful. Most of his Guardians were on an assignment in Tokyo for the week, which left Tsuna in charge of Lambo and Ipin. Babysitting normal ten-year-olds could take a lot out of a guy, let alone ten-year-old mafiosi. Once he reached the Hall Camino Tsuna turned on the lights, yawned, and, with a book in hand, made for the nearest settee.

He did not notice Kakimoto Chikusa until he was halfway across the room.

_“Hee!”_

Tsuna placed a hand on his chest, taking a moment to compose himself with a few deep breaths. He cleared his throat. “Hello, Chikusa-san.”

Chikusa was sitting by himself in front of the large window. As of late, he, like Ken and Mukuro, had taken to forgoing his Kokuyo uniform in lieu of more casual clothes. Today Chikusa wore a cotton shirt the color of ripe coconuts beneath a gray pea coat. He had removed his white beanie and was fiddling with the ends of it. He spared Tsuna a brief glance. “Hey.”

Gokudera’s Steinway stood close to the window. Tsuna placed his book on top of the piano and pulled up the bench. He sat, gazing at Chikusa with more than a little curiosity. It was uncanny to see him without Ken, let alone in the Vongola Headquarters. “Do you have something to report?” He asked Chikusa.

“No,” Chikusa said.

“Oh. Well, that’s…that’s good, I guess,” Tsuna said. He continued to survey Chikusa, all the while wondering why on earth Mukuro picked the member of Kokuyo with the _worst_ social skills to deliver a message.

He saw a familiar bulge in the pocket of Chikusa’s coat and gestured to it with one hand. “Yo-yo is working well?” he asked.

“I changed from a fixed axle model to a bearing transaxle model,” Chikusa replied with something that could have been a nod. He stared blandly back at Tsuna with eyes that looked like dusty marbles behind his delicate wire-frames.

Tsuna swallowed. God, this was awkward. Talking with Chikusa was like trying to teach Shakespeare to a brick wall. He could see why Ken acted as wild as he did; anything to get a response from the constant hebetude. But Tsuna had read Chikusa’s file. He knew about the things that Chikusa wouldn’t… _couldn’t_ talk of. So he was patient.

“Chikusa…” he began. “Do you have something you want to talk with me about?”

Chikusa was silent for a minute. He gave a slow, enervated blink and folded his beanie in his lap before replying, _“La Festa del Ringraziamento.”_

Tsuna raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“Thanksgiving,” Chikusa translated. “It’s next week.”

If Tsuna did not know any better, he would have said Chikusa looked uncomfortable. Tsuna felt like he was back at Namimori. Remedial algebra. Everything was on the board, but he was just not computing. “Yesss…”

“We’re cooking,” Chikusa replied. “In our apartment. We have space.”

It took Tsuna a good minute to fully decode the message. It took him another minute to believe it. “Are you—are you saying you want me over for Thanksgiving?” he asked, blinking rapidly.

Chikusa unfolded his beanie and smoothed out the creases in it. Once upon a time he had been a bright boy, brighter than most people attributed him for. One could tell from his almond-shaped eyes, milky skin, and charcoal-black hair that he was an Italian-born Japanese, like many of the younger generations of the Estraneo were. He had once found enjoyment in simple things like puzzles, gadgets, and showers. He had once upon a time been charismatic; had danced with strings and wires, had laughed in the rain during a showerstorm.

Then one day the children in his Family had been taken to a special school, where he had been taught “obedience.” They took part of him out. But then he met his two best friends and they had escaped across the world together. Chikusa still enjoyed life’s pleasures, but he was little more than a shadow, composed of shock-trauma serenity and dulled emotions crudely stitched back together. When asked a question, Chikusa could deliver a perfect response. He knew who he was, where he was, and he had the reflexes of a cheetah on the hunt. Sometimes he even smiled.

Chikusa put his beanie back on. He didn’t like to expose his head for too long. Someone might open it up again.

“We owe you,” he said finally.

Tsuna uncrossed his legs and smiled, oddly touched. “I suppose Mukuro was too embarrassed to come himself,” he said. “D-don’t tell him I said that,” he added, backtracking. “For such a dangerous guy, his soft spot is, um, kind of hard to miss.”

“To you,” Chikusa said.

Tsuna was still smiling, but he looked mildly confused. “Eh?”

Chikusa shrugged. “It’s all about perception,” he said.

At this Tsuna laughed, and he shook his head. “That sounds like something Mukuro would say, you know.” He asked, “What is it you guys are making?” _Should I be afraid?_

 _“Tacchinella alla melagrana. Ravioli con la zucca.”_ Chikusa noticed Tsuna giving him a strange look and continued in Japanese. “Sweet turkey sausage and mozzarella stuffing. Baked sweet potatoes with lime and ginger.”

Tsuna’s stomach gave a rumble. “Um, wow,” he said. “That’s certainly a far cry off from choco-bits and melon candy.”

“We don’t want to go back there.”

“You don’t want to go back wh—“ Tsuna paused. “Oh.” The hospital. Mukuro’s little panic attack surfaced in his mind then. Anything that could scare _Mukuro_ like that certainly struck the fear of god into Ken and Chikusa, no doubt. Tsuna met Chikusa’s eye and he gave him a reassuring smile.

“I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that you three learned your lesson,” he said. “Whenever you guys have a problem, you come to me before it gets bad. None of this inter-famiglia _omert_ _à_ nonsense. That way you will never have to go back.”

For a moment there was silence. Tsuna found it a little less awkward than before.

“That’s why he finds you interesting,” Chikusa said quietly, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

“Mukuro?”

Chikusa’s hand fell to his pocket, outlining the yo-yo inside. “Maybe you’ll end up destroying the mafia after all.”

Tsuna sighed. That’s what he had been telling people for years, but nobody seemed to believe he would actually do it. Breaking down a four hundred year-old crime syndicate took time.

But that day would come, and Sawada Tsunayoshi would have the last _risata._

“He’d like that,” Chikusa said, pulling Tsuna from his daydreams. After a minute he admitted, “I would too.”

Tsuna found he was smiling again. When he first started this whole mafia business, a lot seemed impossible. Now, half a decade later, he could take down any don in a fight. He had a pet lion. He could fly. He could travel in time. He had tamed the Namimori Menace Hibari Kyouya, and had earned the respect of the demonic Varia Assassination Squad. He had found the girl of his dreams. Rokudo Mukuro had not spoken of possessing him in years, and Kakimoto Chikusa was sitting across from him, openly expressing his feelings. It really was a crazy world.

“What time next Thursday?” Tsuna asked.

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've posted! My life is incredibly busy, and I've been out-of-touch with fanfiction lately. To keep my writing skills fresh, I've decided to revamp/rewrite an old idea I had in the KHR fandom, since I never really did it properly before.


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